


Heat Me Up

by rivers_bend



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: D/s, Face Slapping, M/M, Power Dynamics, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2010-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy <em>likes</em> to be put on his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know any of the people whose personas are mentioned here, and neither believe nor mean to imply that this ever happened or ever would.

Adam is leaning on one of the stools at the kitchen island, making him just Tommy's height, even with Tommy barefoot, black-painted toes peeking out from the frayed ankles of his jeans. They would be eye-to-eye if Adam's gaze wasn't on Tommy's stomach. Tommy can't tell if Adam is just admiring the way the jeans ride low enough on his hips that it's clear Tommy didn't bother pulling on anything else at all before coming out to find his boyfriend, or if he's avoiding looking Tommy in the eye, but he knows which Adam would claim and he knows what he suspects. There're more ways than one to not see eye-to-eye.

"Adam," Tommy says into the silence, "what makes you happier than anything else?"

That brings Adam's eyes flicking to his face. "Making people happy?"

Tommy's lips twitch, but he manages not to smile. Right answer. He actually thought he'd have to work harder to get there. "And awesome sex also makes you happy, right?"

Adam raises an eyebrow, but no way can he deny it. Everyone who's ever seen an interview with the guy knows _that_ about him. And Tommy's been there for some pretty fucking spectacular sex and seen the grin Adam cannot wipe off his face. He won't admit to yes, though, because that would encourage Tommy to keep talking.

Not that Tommy needs to be encouraged. He'll let things slide and go with the flow with the best of them—hell, better than the best of them, probably—but Adam asked him what he wanted. Said Tommy could tell him anything. And then he walked away when Tommy did as he was told. _That_ is not okay.

"So something that will make me happy and provide us both with great sex is pretty much your perfect scenario."

"I'm not going to slap you."

Tommy's known Adam long enough to have identified his various stubborn tones. This is his _for your own good_ voice. Hard to talk him out of, but not impossible. Tommy's had practice.

"Because?"

"Because I don't hit people I love."

The coffee Adam put on as an excuse to leave the bedroom—because god forbid Adam Lambert admit there's something he just doesn't want to talk about—is done, so Tommy lets Adam's comment stand while he gets out mugs and fills them, doctors them, brings them back to the other side of the kitchen.

He's surprised when Adam grabs his wrist instead of the mug and pulls him into the space between his knees, sliding fingers along the skin at Tommy's waist. "Thanks," Adam says, retrieving his coffee and taking a sip. "Why does it always taste better when you make it?"

"Because _I_ don't think you're going to get fat if your coffee has more than a half-a-teaspoon of milk in it."

"Why do you want me to slap you?"

Of course _now_ he wants to talk, with his dick all soft and warm nuzzled up against the side of Tommy's hip, and his arm holding Tommy close so Tommy can't look him in the eye.

Fine, then. "Because it feels good. Because it isn't any different to when you pull my hair or leave bruises on my wrists or fuck me so hard I can feel it for two days. Because I like it."

"But—"

"Adam." Tommy wiggles enough that he gets his left shoulder in Adam's line of sight. "You think this didn't hurt?" The bite-mark there is from last night, and Tommy knows each tooth has left a purple-red welt and it's starting to bruise around the edges.

"That's—"

"Did I come when you bit me? Before you even touched my dick?"

Tipping his head back, Tommy can see Adam's face, see the heat in his eyes and the involuntary quirk of his lips at the happy memory.

"So you want me to slap you while I'm fucking you?"

"No—" Or, well, actually—"Okay, that works too. But that isn't what I meant exactly."

"So what do you mean, _exactly_?"

On the plus side, Adam's kind of trapped with Tommy between his legs. On the minus side, Tommy's already tried to have this conversation once this morning, and Adam still sounds kind of belligerent. He fortifies himself with coffee.

"And this time you'll listen?"

"Promise." Adam kisses him behind the ear and pulls him closer.

Tommy explains what he wants.

***

So far Tommy has unearthed an almost-empty carton of Thai take-away that is at least two weeks old, a half-full jar of pasta sauce that he doesn't remember opening, some chicken breasts that were best before the week before last, and some fresh ravioli that are only two days past their prime. None of it looks very promising for dinner, and Adam is due home—

Due home now, apparently. The front door slams—a problem when the kitchen window is open, something they keep meaning to do something about—and Tommy calls, "How was it, baby?"

There's no answer, save the sound of Adam's boots coming down the hall. Tommy has just dropped the chicken in the garbage and is still turning around when Adam comes striding across the threshold.

"Hey," Tommy says, smiling. He notices a tiny falter in Adam's gait, a flicker of something in his eyes, but before he can really register it, Adam has closed the distance between them and grabbed a handful of Tommy's hair. And, hello, how to go from perplexed to hard in 0.5 seconds.

Tommy lets his neck go, allows Adam wrench his head all the way back, but he doesn't let his knees give, keeps them defiantly rigid.

"I want my dick sucked," Adam says.

The way his head is tilted, Tommy has a perfect view of Adam's face, of his eyes taking in Tommy's slack mouth and lowered lashes, noting Tommy's failure to drop to his knees. The grip on Tommy's hair tightens past pleasure into pain that jolts down Tommy's spine and turns to pleasure again as it hits his dick, making him writhe, but before he can give in to the sensation completely, Adam lets go.

And with his eyes searching Tommy's face like he's trying to read Tommy's soul, Adam slaps him.

The sting is sharp and perfect and on its own is enough to make Tommy drop, but the look on Adam's face—that's something else again. Tommy's been slapped by people who looked indifferent, or angry (usually put on, but not always), or who were working some kind of porn-star sex face, but Adam looks _raw_. And that, more than any physical sensation ever could, is what makes Tommy's knees buckle.

He actually whimpers trying to get Adam's pants open because he can't make his fingers work fast enough, and Adam's no help, both his hands buried in Tommy's hair again, holding him still, leaving him nowhere to look but up. But Tommy's done this before, and even shaky with lust and blind, he gets inside, gets his hands on Adam's dick.

And now they're on familiar ground, Adam using a thumb to open Tommy's jaw, to guide his cock, his other hand tilting Tommy's head so he can fuck his way inside.

Without thought Tommy opens to him, letting Adam use his mouth, no need to act. He can still feel Adam's palm on his cheek, skin tingling where the press of Adam's shaft stretches it, throbbing in time with his dick, with his heart trying to get more oxygen to his brain, not that he's getting much oxygen to his lungs right now. Adam's rolling his hips, his own breathing ragged, fingers tracing Tommy's jaw, high whine against his palate like he's close already. Like maybe—

"Tommy, shit, Taaah—" Adam fucks deep into Tommy's throat, shaking, thighs quivering under Tommy's hands, grip on his hair so fucking tight, and Tommy's knees are on fire, he can't breathe at all, can't see for the tears in his eyes, and there is no place he'd rather be.


End file.
